


4711

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Non-angsty, Trouble In Paradise, fluffy fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3564002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This light-hearted tale of petty squabbles between lovers can be summed up with one sentence: "Christian Dior can suck my cock."</p>
            </blockquote>





	4711

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually an old story I began writing in the late summer of 2014, got around to finishing it in the winter, and never managed to post it until now, months later. It doesn't really fit within the framework of my other Draco/Theodore stories, but it's fun.
> 
> Thanks to my partner in crime, ColorfulStabwound.
> 
> For Draco... and Dior.

_4 SEPTEMBER – THURSDAY – 10:30 PM_

It hadn't always been this bad. Sure, Theodore and Draco had their fair share of fights over the years, often ending catastrophically with someone bleeding, someone crying, or someone getting shagged senseless - sometimes all of the above happening to one person within quick succession. But this past Sunday morning had been different.  There had been an argument of epic proportions, resulting in mass destruction.

 

The catalyst for said row had not been any worse than that of previous fights.  No worse than a fencing "accident" or a rejected kiss or even a chocolate-smudged Paul Smith blazer.  In fact, it was a mere scratch compared to how deeply they'd wounded one another in the past.

 

 

"Relationships are more volatile once you both put the L-card on the table," said Pansy, twirling the little red straw in her cocktail.

 

Theodore mumbled around his cigarette as he lit it with a silver muggle lighter. "You and I never fought like this."

 

"We weren't together long enough," said Pansy without any bitterness, "Had we stayed together, I'm sure hexes would've flown eventually."

 

Theodore joked dryly, "Or at least a well-aimed stiletto heel."

 

Pansy laughed readily, her merriment likely lubricated by the vodka in her drink.  Her mirth was catching, and Theodore couldn't help but chuckle despite his foul mood, finding comfort in the familiarity of this scene.  It had been a long time since he and Pansy had drunk together like this - forlorn, at a random muggle bar on a lonely night, with the sole intention of getting completely _shitfaced_ enough to numb the pain in their hearts _._ He could remember a time period when they’d bond over their eternal fruitless yearning for Draco Malfoy and shots of tequila.  Things had changed tremendously, and yet they hadn’t really changed at all. At the end of the day, Theodore and Pansy were still knocking back drinks while knocking Draco.

 

Theodore furrowed his brow in thought as he blew a plume of smoke above their heads.  “Are you saying that the intensity of a fight is proportional to the duration of a relationship, and that the intensity increases exponentially once Love is a factor?”

 

Pansy blinked rapidly, evidently processing what Theodore had said with great difficulty.  “How is it that your words get longer as you get drunker?”

 

“I’m a writer.  Alcohol loosens my tongue and makes me multi-syllabic.” With that, Theodore pounded back a shot of whiskey and winced.  “Anyway, your logic sucks.”

 

“My logic is perfect,” Pansy huffed. “You distracted me with stiletto heels before I could finish explaining.”

 

Theodore made a grand gesture with his hand that indicated Pansy was welcome to elaborate.

 

“Exchanging _I love yous_ shifts the game.  You know that the other is going to eventually forgive you for whatever shitty thing you do because they love you.  So you’re more inclined to do or say something horrible to them because you know they won’t leave you forever.  Which makes quarrels between lovers much worse. ”

 

Pansy’s logic was beginning to make sense. But it definitely didn’t make Theodore feel any better.  “That’s just lovely,” he muttered sarcastically.  “Telling Draco that I love him gives him license to be even _more_ of an arsehole to me?  Splendid. Just what I need. Because he wasn’t a complete dick before.”

 

“Remember, it goes both ways,” said Pansy, a dark glimmer in her eyes and a knowing smirk upon her red lips. She leaned across the table and purred, hinting heavily of mischief, “Draco _loves_ you.”

 

Theodore’s wry grin turned sinister. “Pansy, you’re a bloody genius. An _evil_ genius.”

 

 

~@~

 

 

It wasn’t expensive.  It wasn’t rare.  It wasn’t exotic.  Not assertive or commanding attention.  It was subtle. And perhaps, this is why Theodore liked it.

 

It was ethereal.  One wouldn’t be aware of it unless it was brought to their attention. Yet it lingered like a faded memory.

 

It came in a glass potion bottle with a blue and gold paper label and a little red cap that resembled a wax seal. Although, it wasn’t really a potion bottle, since muggles technically did not brew potions.  But what they did concoct was art for the senses, however non-magical.

 

It smelled clean and uncomplicated. It smelled of spring. It reminded him of his late mother’s freshly washed hands.  It smelled of happiness and tranquility.

 

The essence of Bergamot, like the robust Earl Grey tea he enjoyed when coffee wasn’t in his best interests, rounded out the delicate base notes of citrus and rosemary.  When the mixture of these essential oils was combined with curative spring water from Cologne, Germany, the resulting formula was called _4711 Original Eau de Cologne_.

 

Theodore had been wearing it since he was a child, when he had taken a bottle from his mother’s dressing table after she had died. The light, airy scent had seemed to lift him out of his gloom, however slightly.  Perhaps it was aroma therapy.  Or the comforting effects of his mother’s scent.  Or perhaps the muggles had inadvertently formulated something magical.

 

As he grew into an adult, Theodore had incorporated 4711 into his post-bath routine.  It had been a constant in his life.  A habit. And he had no intention of breaking it. Not even for haughty blond men who thought it wasn’t good enough.

 

~@~

 

 

_31 AUGUST – SUNDAY – 11:00 AM_

 

“Where’s my forty-seven-eleven?” Theodore asked of no one in particular as he stood naked and freshly showered in his bathroom, rummaging through the cluttered contents of his medicine cabinet.

 

“Your what?” Draco questioned, equally devoid of clothing, mumbling around a toothbrush.

 

“My forty-seven-eleven,” Theodore repeated as he began to empty out the cabinet, scattering tiny potion bottles of tonics and tinctures around the sink.  “My cologne. I feel unfinished without it. Did I leave it at your house?”

 

Draco spat toothpaste into the sink, somehow managing to do so gracefully.  “You did, actually. Which reminds me.” He rinsed his mouth and nuzzled his face into the crook of Theodore’s neck, which would have been more pleasant to Theodore, had he not felt annoyed at that moment, and had Draco’s face not been cold and wet.  “I want to give you something,” Draco drawled smoothly, his arms snaking around Theodore’s waist.

 

“Not now, Draco,” said Theodore with an aggravated sigh, “I’m not in the mood.”

 

“I’m not trying to give you my cock - I bought you something,” replied Draco, matching Theodore’s irritation.

 

Theodore slipped out of Draco’s embrace and muttered grumpily, “Either way, still not in the mood.  Not until I have some nicotine and caffeine in my body. You _know_ it makes me grumpy when my morning routine is broken – including 4711.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes and summoned something from the other room.  “You can’t start the day without a cigarette, coffee, and _cheap perfume_? I can understand the other two, but the toilet water you wear?”

 

Theodore narrowed his eyes at Draco. “I’ve always worn the same cologne. You never complained about it before.”

 

“That’s because I hadn’t realized how cheap it is,” said Draco with a superior air.  “You’d left the bottle at my place the other night.  I was going to buy you another bottle so that you could keep one at your flat and one at my house.  They didn’t even carry it in Harrods, for Merlin’s sake.  The clerk at the men’s fragrance counter told me I could order it from _Online_ , whatever shop that is – likely some tacky retailer.”  He scrunched his nose with distaste, making it quite clear that shopping anywhere but at a designer boutique or a high-end department store was rather beneath him.

 

Theodore held out his hand with an exasperated sigh. “Just give it to me.”

 

“You don’t think I actually bought it, do you?” Draco snorted arrogantly, “I had a nearly identical bespoke fragrance formulated for you at Miller Harris.”  He practically thrust the box at Theodore.  “It cost two-hundred muggle pounds and the bottle is engraved with your name, but I suppose luxury is lost on you.”

 

Theodore pursed his lips and muttered, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

 

“Well, I did.  You’re fucking welcome,” Draco replied shortly.

 

Theodore let out an incredulous huff and said, “You want me to bloody thank you?  For what? Insulting my personal taste in cologne? For upsetting my daily routine? Do you realize I’ve been wearing the same cologne since I was too young to be wearing cologne?”

 

Draco shrugged.  “Just because you don’t know better doesn’t mean you don’t deserve better.”

 

“Oh, and you know what’s best for me?” Theodore asked rhetorically, angrily gesturing with his arms, “Are you going to choose my wardrobe for me now?  Tell me what fucking names should be on the labels?  Decide what fancy cigarettes I should be smoking?  Dictate the quality of the firewhiskey I drink? Ensure that my fucking toilet tissue is fucking _bourgeois_ enough to wipe my arse?”

 

Draco frowned slightly.  The only indication that he was livid was the pulsing jugular vein throbbing along his neck.  Otherwise, he managed to appear only mildly perturbed, but Theodore could tell that Draco was _quite_ perturbed. Draco snatched the box out of Theodore’s hand and opened it, never letting his eyes move from their fixed position burning holes through Theodore’s skull.  The bottle certainly looked _luxe_ – the glass was thick, clear, and shaped like a small brick of fine leaded crystal.  Draco pulled out the silver stopper, extended his arm, and poured the entire contents of the bottle into the sink while staring daggers at Theodore.  Once every over-priced drop was down the drain, he let the bottle fall into the basin without any sign of concern.  It made a singular, horrible, clang against the porcelain, cracking the sink.

 

And then he got right up in Theodore’s face, close enough that they could’ve kissed, but his sentiment was anything but affectionate. His words simmered quietly like a bubbling cauldron on the verge of explosion.

 

“You live like a pseudo-bohemian in your industrial loft with your stupid muggle records everywhere and your mismatched crockery. You want to live like common people, but you are anything but common, Theodore Nott.  Underneath your t-shirts and ripped jeans your blood runs just as blue and pure as mine.  And I _know_ that hiding inside your closet is a pair of cufflinks you bought yourself, each studded with a two karat diamond, and the box bears the name _Dior._ So don’t even try to tell me you’re _not bourgeois_. You’re beyond bourgeois.”

 

Theodore’s face was hot and his nerves were ragged. Draco had managed to see right through him, as always, and made Theodore defensive.  His lover had challenged his sense of self and had verbalized what had always gone unspoken – that they both knew Theodore’s life was a carefully constructed reality designed to allow Theodore to escape his past. Even though Draco was mostly right, it still didn’t feel good to have his identity shattered by the person he loved.

 

In fact, it hurt.  It hurt so much that Theodore lashed out impulsively, as he was prone to do.

 

“You know what I think of those cufflinks? I’ll show you what I think of those cufflinks.”  He grabbed Draco by the wrist and dragged him to the walk-in closet.  Draco followed, rolling his eyes.  Theodore pulled out a satin box, extracted its contents, and tossed the box aside like it personally offended him.  He brandished a diamond-studded cufflink in each hand, taunting Draco with them.  “This is what I think of these fucking Dior cufflinks.” 

 

Theodore stormed out of the closet. He didn’t look back to see if Draco was following.  But he knew that Draco, being Draco, hesitated before following and did so at his own leisurely pace. When Theodore reached the windows that lined the entire wall of his living room area, he turned to find Draco watching with aloof regard, leaning on the back of the couch, still naked and arrogant as ever.  Anger gave Theodore the power to perform a wandless spell that opened one of the windows.

 

He annunciated each word carefully to impart his resolve. “Christian Dior can suck my cock.” With that, he flung the cufflinks out the window.

 

He thought he heard Draco gasp as his eyes widened. He also heard somebody yelp in pain on the street below his window, though that could have been incidental.

 

“Now, now, Theodore,” Draco said with a patronizing inflection, “There’s no need to take Dior’s name in vain.” Then he grinned so smugly that Theodore could’ve punched him in his pretty face.  “The flippancy with which you tossed diamonds out the window just proves my point.  Those cufflinks could have fed a dozen starving artists for months, but no worries. You have money to burn.” He tilted his head and smiled tightly.

 

This just fueled the flames of Theodore’s anger, sending him into a luxury-item-desecration tirade.  “Fuck you, Malfoy,” he huffed impetuously, using his lover’s surname in a likely ineffective attempt to inspire a shred of uninhibited anger in him. Theodore didn’t even know why he wanted to piss off Draco so badly, other than to have somebody with which to share his fury.

 

Theodore stomped back toward the closet, which was likely a comical sight, being that he was still stark bloody naked. “You know who else can suck my dick?”

 

He heard Draco’s sarcastic drawl in his wake, reverberating in the vast space of the loft.  “Let me guess… it isn’t me.”

 

Inside the closet, he wrenched high-end garments from their hangers, crumpled them, and threw them on the floor, cursing each designer in his rage.  “Jil Sander can suck my cock. Tom Ford can go fuck himself. Burberry can bugger off. Boateng can--”

 

Theodore didn’t get to suggest what deviant sexual act Ozwald Boateng could perform, for Draco snatched the suit from his hands as if Theodore was a toddler breaking his toys in a temper tantrum. “Oh no you don’t – not your bespoke Boateng.  You wouldn’t crumple a Da Vinci painting, so why ruin this work of art?”

 

A frustrated growl erupted from Theodore’s throat. He spat, “Sometimes I think you care more about fashion than you do about me.”

 

Draco, appearing unaffected by Theodore’s tantrum, smoothed his hand over the front of the suit jacket and returned it reverently to its place in the closet.  “Would you listen to yourself?  You sound like a disgruntled housewife.”

 

This only infuriated Theodore even more. He was so flustered and rendered unable to retort by the intensity of his anger that he did the only thing he could. He walked away, fuming, into his bedroom, where he put on the same clothes that had been discarded on the floor the night before, although his underpants could not be found. Rather than get a fresh pair from his drawers in the closet, he went without them, too cross with Draco to go back to where he’d left him.  He grabbed his cigarettes from the bedside table and disapparated without so much as a parting _fuck you_ to Draco.

 

 

~@~

 

_3 SEPTEMBER - WEDNESDAY – 1:15 PM_

“Let me guess.  You and Draco had a fight, hm?” Daphne inferred, her face glowing green and blue in the fire.

 

Theodore slumped to the rug in a slouching heap before the furnace where he took his fire-calls.  “Whatever he told you, only believe half of it. You know he likes to exaggerate.”

 

“He didn’t have to tell me anything. He sent his owl to my house with an invitation and a portkey to New York for tomorrow. I knew straight away.” She held up an embossed fold of thick parchment with Draco’s wax seal cracked open.

 

Theodore’s heart painfully contracted with brutal realization.  There was only one reason why Draco would be going to New York this time of year. Fashion Week.  The fact that Draco was taking Daphne instead of Theodore sent a clear, cruel message.

 

“I suppose I know where his priorities lie,” Theodore muttered bitterly, then thought to himself, _fashion before fuck-buddies._

 

“You won’t hold it against me if I go, will you?” Coming from Daphne, it sounded more like a sugar-coated threat than a plea.

 

Theodore shrugged.  “Fuck if I care.”

 

“Now now, Theo, don’t drag me into your lover’s quarrel,” she chastised, “I’m staying neutral.  I had the courtesy to confer with you, didn’t I?”

 

Theodore gave a resigned sigh and raked his fingers through his hair.  “Go. Enjoy yourselves. You’d appreciate Fashion Week more than I would anyway.”

 

“Well, I do miss his company.” Daphne smiled graciously. He couldn’t be angry with that smile. Not that he had any right to be. His beef was with Draco. Not with Daphne. Daphne couldn’t be blamed if she was an unwitting pawn through which Draco was purposefully wounding Theodore. “And I’ll talk some sense into him,” she added.  With a knowing grin and a wink, she disappeared from the flames.

 

Just an hour later, an owl came tapping on his window. His heart jumped, as did he from his seat.  But it was not the familiar bird he’d been hoping to see.  The owl delivered what appeared to be a hastily written note:

 

_Theo,_

_Draco invited me to a muggle concert in New York, of all places.  Show is this Friday.  I happen to be going to New York anyway to watch my girlfriend walk in the Donna Karan runway show.  Am I right in assuming you’re coming to New York for Fashion Week and the concert? May I also assume that you own recordings of the group performing and would be willing to loan some to me? I want to know what I’m getting myself into.  The performers are called The Cure.  Please send along one of their packed discs.  I believe Ellie has the device to play it._

_Cheers,_

_Blaise_

Theodore misdirected his anger toward Blaise’s note and crumpled it up.  He tore a piece of paper from his journal and scrawled a reply, pressing his quill into the parchment harder than he needed to, especially over the last sentence of the note.

 

_B,_

_I wasn’t invited, as far as I know.  But go and have fun. The Cure is my favourite band ever, and New York is my favourite city aside from London, but that’s okay. Tell Ellie to find their music on the Internet for you.  Most muggle-borns know how to do that.  I don’t own any compact discs.  I only listen to music on vinyl.  My apologies. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the concert anyway. ~~Tell Draco to go fuck himself.~~_

__

_T_

 

~@~

 

_4 SEPTEMBER - THURSDAY – 11:50 PM_

“Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time I’ve been in Draco’s closet without his knowledge,” said Pansy, curiously fingering a tuxedo shirt on one of the many racks.

 

“I don’t doubt it,” replied Theodore with a little amused snort.

 

She ran her hand along the hanging garments in a wave, as if playing a giant wind chime, making the cedar wood hangers clack together. “Back then, he had a lot more turtlenecks in his wardrobe.”

 

Theodore laughed out loud.  He was definitely still very drunk.

 

And, most likely, Pansy was still just as drunk, if not more so.  “So what are you going to do? Light this collection of obscene wealth on fire like a French revolutionary?  Piss in his Italian leather shoes?”  She pulled a silk shirt off a hanger, slipped it on like a wrap-dress, and posed before the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

 

“The only positively obscene thing here is you,” joked Theodore.

 

She gestured at him with two fingers and giggled.   “No _this_ is the most obscene thing I’ve ever seen.  What is this, Gucci?  Versace?  I can’t see Draco wearing something so hideous.”  The shirt she put on had a garish print of gold chains and flowers upon a satiny black background.

 

“I think that’s mine, actually. I faintly remember wearing it to a Halloween fancy dress party as part of a pimp costume with a fur fedora.”

 

“Ah, yes I remember that party. You were both the pimp _and_ the whore,” Pansy jibed lightheartedly.

 

Theodore laughed somberly.  “Don’t know why he’s still got it here.  I left it ages ago.”

 

“Shall we burn it with the rest?” Pansy asked merrily, mischief alighting her eyes.

 

“I’m not _burning_ anything,” said Theodore, divesting Pansy of his shirt, “With my luck, his whole bloody house will go up in flames.”

 

Pansy pulled her wand from an alligator clutch purse. “I’m quite skilled at fire containment spells, you know.”

 

“My skills and your pyromania aside, I’m not lighting anything on fire.  I have other ideas.”  He narrowed his eyes and tapped his chin in thought.  “I hope he still has the bottle.”

 

He rifled around the closet in search of his weapon of choice, but it didn’t emerge until he remembered in his drunken haze that he’d left his bottle of 4711 in the bathroom.  Sure enough, it was there, shining on the marble sinks in blue, gold, and red. He returned to the closet with it, greeting a very curious Pansy with his devious smirk.

 

 

 

~@~

 

_5 SEPTEMBER - FRIDAY – 10:05 AM_

Theodore slowly awoke to the faint sound of rhythmic tapping and brightness behind his eyelids.  His head felt like a troll had sat on it and so he had no intention of opening his eyes, lest he risk exacerbating the pain by exposure to what would most certainly be harsh sunlight on hypersensitive corneas.

 

The tapping became louder, more insistent, its rhythm conveying a sort of panic.  Now it wasn’t so much tapping as it was knocking.  Then a meek, high-pitched voice accompanied the knocking. “Sir, permission to enter, please, Sir? Sir?”

 

Theodore whined woefully and felt the extent of the dryness of his throat for the first time since waking.  He knew to whom that little voice belonged. Dipsy.  Why would a bloody house elf be knocking on his bedroom door?

 

The knocking sound became a pounding inside his skull, though the elf's tiny hands couldn't possibly be making a sound that big. Theodore was royally hung over and not in any mood to receive a house elf, much less Draco’s house elf.

 

"Go away," Theodore groaned, turning onto his side and curling into a fetal position.

 

"But, Sir, Dipsy has been searching for Sir all morning. Master said Dipsy must deliver this directly to Sir as soon as possible."

 

Searching all morning?  He'd been here the whole time as far as he knew. He vaguely remembered passing out in bed.  Though he couldn't remember how he got home.

 

"Dipsy hadn't realized that Sir was here, or surely Dipsy would've delivered it sooner. "

 

Theodore answered sharply, reacting to the pain in his skull and the lack of legal stimulants in his bloodstream, "Well where else would I be at fuck-o-clock in the fucking morning?"

 

"Dipsy looked everywhere but right here. Dipsy thought he heard Master in Master's bedroom last night.  But it was Sir. Please, Sir, permit Dipsy to enter?"

 

“Are you trying to wake the dead? Shut the _fuck_ up and just let the bloody elf come in.”

 

The second familiar voice came at such a surprise and from such a close proximity that it made Theodore gasp audibly with utter horror. He was suddenly very much awake, with is eyes wide open, sitting up rigidly in Draco’s bed beside Pansy. She was curled up under the bedcovers with just the back of her head peeking out.  With sudden full consciousness came an onslaught of partial fuzzy memories of the preceding hours.

 

“What the fuck did we do last night, Pansy?” Theodore asked, his eyes darting around Draco’s room for clues.  The place was in disarray, with expensive-looking champagne bottles lying empty on the floor and the bed littered with goose down feathers. It smelled of spilled alcohol, lemons, and grapefruits.  All evidence pointed towards the consumption of Draco’s stash of prized _Dom Perignon_ vintages, an epic pillow fight, and something involving massive amounts of citrus.

 

Theodore was shirtless, but quick visual confirmation assured him that he still had his trousers on.  If that reassurance wasn’t enough, Pansy said, her voice raspy and tired, “We didn’t sleep together, just so you know.  I mean, we slept together, but not in a fun way. Unfortunately.”

 

“Oh, thank Godric.”  Theodore deflated with relief and sent a flurry of loose feathers into the air when he fell back into the pillows, which felt significantly less plush than they were supposed to.

 

“Thanks, Theo,” Pansy said stiffly with much sarcasm, “You really know how to make a witch feel special.”

 

“Sir?  Please, Sir?” the elf interjected sheepishly between the banter, reminding the other two of its presence and its directive.

 

“Yes, yes,” said Theodore, impatient and surly, “You don’t need permission from me to enter.  It’s not my bloody house.”

 

“Dipsy didn’t want to be rude and impose upon Sir’s privacy,” the house elf explained apologetically.

 

“Oh bloody Hell; you’ve walked in on worse, I’m sure,” said Theodore.

 

Finally, Dipsy pattered in, bearing a small, black, velvet box.  As the elf approached, it glanced slowly around the room with a deep furrow forming between its saucer-like eyes. Dipsy certainly had a mess to deal with later.

 

The elf held up the box with two hands, its head bowed, as if presenting an offering to a deity.  “From Master to Sir.  Master wants Sir to know he had it commissioned in New York and delivered to London by special courier.”

 

Theodore sat up and took the box hesitantly, as if touching it would mean he was admitting defeat.  Curiosity drove him to open the box.  Inside, wedged in the groove of a tiny satin pillow, was a ring. At first glance, it looked somewhat familiar.  Upon closer inspection, he realized that it was the diamond and black onyx from one of his discarded Dior cufflinks reset into a wide platinum band.  The stones sat in a channel so that they were flush with the matte-finish metal.  It was the sort of modern, minimalist design that Theodore might have chosen for himself, and he marveled at how well Draco had inferred his tastes.  Because it was so beautiful, Theodore’s first instinct was not to chuck it.  No, that instinct came secondly. He snapped the box shut and tried to hand it back to Dipsy.

 

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Theodore said curtly.

 

The elf put its hands behind its back, clearly unwilling to do anything but carrying out Draco’s instructions. “Master also wants Sir to know that Master has the other one.”

 

“What’s he doing with it?  Holding it for ransom?” Theodore asked, sarcastic and bitter, “Let me guess.  He’ll give it to me if I apologize or some bullshit.”

 

“No, Sir, Master is keeping it for himself,” replied the elf plainly.

 

Theodore scoffed.  “Figures.”

 

“Dipsy must go now, Sir.  Good day to you.”  With that, the elf disapparated, leaving Theodore with the ring.

 

“What was _that_ all about?” mumbled Pansy.

 

“I’m not sure.  Either Draco is extending a diamond-studded olive branch, or he’s mocking me.”

 

Pansy sat up, rested her chin on Theodore’s shoulder, and took the box from his hand.  She examined its contents and decreed, “Or he’s proposing marriage. Draco doesn’t mock people with gifts of diamond rings, Theo.”

 

“Really, Pan?” Theodore quirked a brow with amused disbelief, “Don’t you think a marriage proposal is a bit far fetched at this point?”

 

“Maybe.  Maybe not,” she replied noncommittally.  “But at the very least, Draco’s calling a truce.”

 

Theodore nodded slowly.  It made the most sense.  And when he really thought about it, he smiled at the idea that Draco had somehow found the cast-off cufflinks and had gone out of his way to repurpose them into something Theodore would actually want to wear every day. It gave his heart a little flutter.

 

 _A truce_ , he declared to himself as he took the ring from its silken nest and put it on his finger…

 

 

 

~@~

 

 

_5 SEPTEMBER – FRIDAY – 2:15 AM – NEW YORK_

With what felt like a punch to the stomach and an agonizing squeeze of his head, Theodore suddenly found himself being transport through a vast distance within seconds.  The ring was a portkey, apparently set to activate upon placement on Theodore’s finger.

 

“ _MOTHERFUCKER,_ ” Theodore hissed upon arrival at his destination. The unexpected transport left him landing quite ungracefully on the floor of a hotel room before Draco’s feet.

 

Draco extended a hand and a knowing smirk. Theodore stood without help and motioned to straighten out his shirt reflexively before remembering that he wasn’t wearing one.  He instead ran his fingers through his hair as if he always meant to fix it.  He glared at Draco and muttered, “You could’ve warned me, you know.”

 

“Caught you at a bad time?” Draco asked, seemingly unconcerned.

 

Theodore simply replied, still unamused, “You could say that.”

 

Undeterred by Theodore’s foul mood, Draco draped his arms on Theodore’s slumping shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. “You came,” he whispered, sounding genuinely pleased.

 

Theodore could hear the smile in his lover’s voice and couldn’t help but feel some pleasure in Draco’s happiness. “I did.  Not that I had a choice.”  He angled his head and nipped the side of Draco’s neck playfully in retaliation.

 

Draco didn’t protest.  He offered more of his neck to Theodore.  “You did have a choice.  You chose to accept the ring.  You chose me.”

 

When Draco said this, it was devoid of any smugness or righteousness, and it affected Theodore as deeply as how he thought Draco felt. He folded the other man into his arms and sighed.  Theodore hadn’t realized how very much he had missed Draco until he was holding him. “And you chose me,” Theodore said softly. He felt Draco melt against him, molding himself to Theodore’s body.

 

“Always,” whispered Draco.

And then he suddenly went rigid in Theodore’s arms. “Theodore, why do you smell like a distillery that had been pelted with lemons?” he asked suspiciously, “Did you bathe in a tub full of alcohol and that rubbish cologne?”

 

Theodore’s eyes widened with sudden realization. _Oh FUCK,_ he mouthed to himself as panic surged through his body like a jolt of electricity.  The memory of all that transpired last night smacked him in the face.

 

“Erm, Draco,” Theodore began, putting distance between him and Draco with his arms, “I really appreciate you sending for me, and I’m happy that you did, but I can’t stay.”

 

Draco narrowed his eyes in an accusatory glare. “So I _did_ catch you at a bad time.  With whom are you having this bad time, I wonder?”

 

There was no way Theodore could get away with lying here.  He had been caught by Draco’s house elf in Draco’s bed with Pansy.  It wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked, but it was still pretty bad. “I may have let my anger get the best of me,” Theodore replied vaguely.

 

Draco crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow. “Oh?  Other than the obvious vast amounts of alcohol and German _eau de Cologne_ , how exactly did your anger manifest?”

 

Theodore opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find a way to tell Draco what happened without giving Draco a heart attack.  “Let me preface this by saying it’s fixable.  At least, I think it can be fixed.  Well, some of it can be fixed.”

 

“Theodore,” Draco’s tone was even, though it sounded like impatience was bubbling beneath the cool surface, “What did you break?”

 

Theodore worried his lip and glanced away. “Technically, I didn’t break it. I just… altered it… significantly.”

 

Draco slowly took a deep breath through his nose and let it out before speaking calmly again, as if trying very hard to keep from strangling Theodore.  “What, exactly did you alter significantly, Theodore?”

 

“Your wardrobe,” Theodore mumbled.

 

Draco tilted his head and shifted his jaw. “I’m sorry, but did I hear you correctly?  Did you just say that you significantly altered my wardrobe?”

 

“I did.  I also drank your secret stash of _Dom Perignon,_ ” He admitted, worried his bottom lip, then added sheepishly, “with Pansy… And had a massive pillow fight in your bedroom… also with Pansy.”

 

Surprisingly, none of what Theodore had said about pillows, Pansy, and champagne seemed to bother Draco.  But his collected veneer was cracking, and that fissure was spreading fast.  Draco smiled tightly and gestured with his hands as he spoke.  “Excuse me, can we get back to the part where you altered my _fucking wardrobe_?  What does that entail?  Did you, oh I don’t know, replace my designer suits with jeans and t-shirts? Shrink all my clothes? Turn everything hideously orange?”

 

“I doused everything in your closet with 4711,” Theodore blurted out, then bit his lip to keep from laughing because, in truth, once he verbalized what he had done, it was rather humorous.

 

“Hm. I see.”  Draco nodded slowly and pursed his lips in thought.  “On a scale from one to ten, one being _faint_ , and ten being _pungent_ , how would you rate the smell of 4711 inside my closet right now?”

 

Theodore exhaled slowly, contemplating as he raked his fingers through his already disheveled hair.  “Erm… eleven?”  He smiled weakly without any conviction.

 

Calmly, Draco nodded again and repeated, “Eleven. Right.”  Very clinically, he continued, “Now, on a scale from one to ten, one being _not so much_ , ten being _abso-fucking-lutely_ , how badly do you think I want to kill you right now, Theodore?”

 

Despite his efforts, Theodore could not keep his lips from curving into a cheeky grin.  “Uhm… one?” The expression blossoming on Draco’s face was just too priceless.

 

A single laugh burst out of Draco’s mouth. “Ha!  One.  You’re fucking funny, Theo.  Hilarious.” Draco sounded anything but amused. His anger slowly seeped out as if through a kettle whistle, rising in tone with the build-up of steam. “You ruin my wardrobe with cheap toilet water.  You have some sort of girls’ slumber party romp with Parkinson in _my_ bed – the bed, which I might add, I have only let _you_ share as of late.  You drink the champagne that I was saving for a special occasion, like, oh, I don’t know, engagement, wedding, some sort of milestone.  And you have the _audacity_ to believe I want to do anything less than rip you a new orifice with which you can go fuck yourself?”  Draco erupted into maniacal laughter, which concerned Theodore more than the potential of being torn a new asshole.

 

Theodore put his hands up, palms facing out, as if keeping an agitated wild animal at bay.  “Need I remind you that you poured a whole bottle of perfume into my sink?” he said, slowly backing away from Draco, grinning wryly, unable to resist joking about it, “My bathroom still smells entirely too bourgeois.”

 

He hadn’t realized that he’d been backing up to a wall until Draco pinned him against it with his fists clenched around Theodore’s bare shoulders.  When the back of his head hit the hard surface, he was starkly reminded of his hangover. The fresh upwelling of pain from deep within his skull significantly dampened Theodore’s humor. But Draco’s show of aggression did _things_ to him.

 

“Did I ever tell you how sexy you are when you’re angry?” Theodore teased.

 

Draco arched an eyebrow and asked with a stiff, rhetorical tone, “Am I?”

 

Then suddenly his hand was clutching Theodore’s jeans entirely too tightly between his legs and sibilantly drawling threats with his lips at Theodore’s ear. “If you want to keep this,” Draco squeezed slightly as he spoke, “you will go back to England right now and clean up your mess.”

 

A small whimper escaped Theodore’s mouth and he inwardly chastised himself for getting so aroused by the prospect of violence and the malicious lilt of Draco’s voice.

 

“I don’t care if you have to travel by muggle means and fly in a metal tube across the ocean.”  Draco hissed, annunciating each consonant sharply, “Fix. It.”

 

Theodore really should not have been as hard as he was. When Draco released him, he adjusted his jeans.  His cheeks felt warm and his heart was pounding harder than the pain in his head. Draco stepped back, gave him a slow once-over, and smirked.  The smug bastard knew what he had done to Theodore.

 

“Clean yourself up first if you must. You’re a right mess.” His eyes fell conspicuously to Theodore’s lap.  “Make it a cold shower.” He fixed Theodore with an icy stare before turning away and unbuttoning his shirt, never regarding Theodore again. “I’m going to bed. See you in a couple of days.”

 

 

~@~

 

 

_8 SEPTEMBER – MONDAY - 12:20 AM - LONDON_

 

When Theodore finally returned to his flat, it was past midnight on Sunday night.  It felt good to be home after what felt like an entire weekend trying to get home from New York without a muggle passport, a wand or any of his own money. He owed some friends from his old neighborhood in the East Village some cash now, but that had been the least of his worries.  He also owed Pansy enough gratitude and favors to be considered an indentured servant. For it had been she who had helped Theodore undo the damage that had been inflicted upon Draco’s bedroom and closet.

 

Though Dipsy had been conspicuously absent from Draco’s house, the feathers had been easy enough to clean up on their own with a spell.  The smell of too much cologne and the wet stains on Draco’s clothes had been more difficult to reverse with simple magic – no wonder Draco had always flipped his shit every time Theodore soiled a linen blazer or a silk tie.  In the end, it had been Pansy who found the right charms and potions in her old Hogwart’s texts.  As for the rare _Dom Perignon_ vintages, Theodore was now indebted to Pansy’s French family – or at least he owed Pansy a new collection of _Louboutin_ shoes every year for life.

 

When he fell into his bed with all his clothes still on, he could have slept like the dead.  But a noise coming from his closet had kept him from his much needed slumber. He drew his wand and Dipsy came out with hands up in surrender.

 

“Dipsy was just making sure Sir got home alright. Master’s orders.” The house elf sidestepped out of the closet, still with its arms raised, looking more guilty that it should.

 

Theodore narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I’m fine.  You can go tell Draco I’m home and that everything is fixed.”

 

“Will do.  Good night to you, Sir.”  Dipsy quickly bowed low and rushed to disapparate.

 

Theodore was too exhausted to give any more fucks and let the elf’s actual motives remain a mystery.

 

At least until morning.

 

When Theodore dressed in his typical casual uniform, it became clear exactly what Dipsy had been doing in his closet last night.

 

“You evil little prick!”Theodore exclaimed when he looked in the mirror to find that the t-shirt he’d put on no longer bore the muggle bandlogo screen printed across the front.  Instead, emblazoned in big block letters, were the words _DIOR CAN SUCK MY COCK._

Theodore yanked off the offending garment and tossed it aside in favor of a _Smiths_ t-shirt. A few moments after putting it on, words began to appear over the faded picture of Morrissey.  _TOM FORD CAN GO FUCK HIMSELF._ Every t-shirt he owned turned into an explicative-bearing statement of menswear designer blasphemy. It was rather Punk, and if Theodore were not so fond of his vintage band t-shirt collection, he would have worn the words in proud defiance against high fashion.  But instead, he cursed Draco with more rude words than his shirts could spell out.

 

By the time he’d gone through every t-shirt in his closet, all that was left were jumpers and button-down shirts. He hastily threw on something gingham and found that the spell’s effect had only been on t-shirts.

 

He summoned a cigarette, parchment, and a quill, then called for Helvetica, who flew to Theodore’s shoulder and nuzzled his cheek affectionately with her beak, clearly attention-starved.

 

 

_Draco,_

_Touché._

_Fuck you very much,_

_Theodore_

 

 

 

 

~@~

 

_9 SEPTEMBER - TUESDAY – 1:30 PM_

 

When Helvetica returned, sans reply, it was evident that the poor owl had been waiting outside Draco’s house to deliver the note for quite a long time.  She was nippy and she had blood on her beak, having likely just gobbled down a rodent after starving for over a day.  Theodore tried to placate her with a treat, but the bird wouldn’t have it.

 

“I’m sorry, Helvie.  Please forgive me,” he spoke softly to the owl, smoothing down the feathers on her back, “I wasn’t thinking.  Of course, Draco would not have been home from New York when I sent you out.  I’m really very sorry, love.”

 

“So you _are_ capable of apologies.  I was beginning to think you simply lost the capacity for remorse.”  Draco was standing in the living room, having apparated just moments ago without Theodore noticing.

 

Theodore glanced up only briefly before returning his attention to his emotionally wounded owl.  “I think it’s fair to say we’re even now.”

 

“We are far from even, Theodore,” said Draco, sounding despondent.  “Ruined clothing aside, there is clearly something wrong between us if all you can say to me is that a score is settled.”

 

The hurt in Draco’s voice was jarring and very worrisome.  There was something going on that ran deeper than petty destruction of property. Draco moved to stand close to Theodore and faced him.  Theodore could see that Draco’s silver eyes were shining with unshed tears.

 

“Have you nothing else to say to me?” Draco waited for a reply, looking expectant but sad.

 

Theodore shrugged helplessly. “I’m… sorry?”

 

Draco sighed with disappointment. “It means nothing if you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”

 

“I’m sorry that I poured my cologne on your clothes?” Theodore said it without meaning or feeling.  He was already over it to be honest and he had expected Draco to be over it as well.

 

“Don’t you get it, Theo?” Draco’s tone began to rise, as did the color of his cheeks, “It was never about bloody perfume or clothes or stupid cufflinks.  I thought that you, of all people, would be able to see beyond materialism.”

 

“You’re calling _me_ materialistic?” Theodore scoffed, affronted.

 

“No, I’m calling you a fucking idiot.” With that, Draco ripped a cufflink off his shirt sleeve and pelted it at Theodore. It hit him hard in the chest and he winced.  But before he could voice how indignant he was, Draco was gone, leaving Theodore with the other Dior cufflink that matched the one in his ring.

 

~@~

 

_10 SEPTEMBER - WEDNESDAY – 7:40 PM_

“For someone who’s supposed to be sensitive and deep, you really were a prat,” said Daphne.  “I hadn’t expected you two to be fighting for this long.”

 

Blaise added, “Really.  I thought I would’ve found you in Draco’s hotel room last week having hot make-up sex.”

 

“Ew, spare us the mental picture, please,” Pansy retorted with displeasure.

 

The four friends sat around a table at a trendy restaurant in London’s most fashionable neighborhood, sipping pre-dinner cocktails and waiting patiently for the fifth member of their party to arrive. Draco was late, as usual. But in his defense, he wasn’t aware that he was keeping four other people waiting.  Daphne had invited him out on the pretense of having pleasant conversation over dinner for two. 

 

In reality, Theodore had assembled Draco’s closest friends (and Pansy) to witness what he had hoped would be a proper apology and the promise of something more.

 

It was nearly eight when Draco arrived, approaching the table hesitantly.  “What is this, an intervention?”

 

“Yes.  We feel that your addiction to cock has gone far enough and you need serious help,” joked Pansy, earning her a withering look from Daphne.

 

“I knew we shouldn’t have invited you,” Daphne muttered.

 

“Never mind why _she’s_ here,” Draco said, regarding Pansy with a haughty glare, “Why is _he_ here?”  He gestured at Theodore.

 

Blaise interjected, not really sounding too offended, “I’m here too, Malfoy, thanks for noticing.”

 

Theodore stood up and pulled out the fifth chair for Draco to sit upon.  Draco glanced at it dubiously as if the piece of furniture could be rigged to collapse.

 

Daphne tugged at Draco’s jacket sleeve and urged, “Please sit down, dear.  I’d hate for you to cause a scene at our favorite restaurant.  I’d really like to be allowed back here some day.”

 

Draco gave a small, resigned sigh and sat down. Theodore flashed an expression of gratitude at Daphne before returning to his own seat beside Draco’s.

 

“I’m here because I’ve been shallow and petty, and I want to apologize,” said Theodore, regarding only Draco while the others looked on quietly.

 

Draco rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, but listened nonetheless.

 

Theodore continued, “You were generous, thoughtful, and unselfish, and I failed to recognize the meaning behind your gifts. So I want to first offer you my most heartfelt apology, and then extend to you my deepest gratitude.”

 

Draco’s cold veneer faltered for perhaps a moment when he smiled, but he otherwise remained icy, however gracious. “Apology accepted. And you’re welcome.”

 

Theodore smiled in return.  He had hoped for more, but he knew he couldn’t expect Draco to be anything but stony in a public setting in front of his peers.

 

Then his heartbeat began to quicken and the hand in the pocket of his blazer felt sweaty.  The words he wanted to say became trapped as a lump in his throat. He swallowed down doubt and nervousness before saying, “I also wanted to return something to you.”

Draco raised a brow curiously. “Return something?”

 

“Granted, it isn’t in the same state that you gave it to me,” Theodore admitted as he closed his hand around the box in his pocket and pulled it out.

 

Daphne gave a tiny, quiet squeal while Pansy stifled a horrified gasp behind her hand.  Blaise sipped his drink with aloof amusement and Draco’s expression remained unmoved, though his silver eyes seemed to sparkle with interest.

Theodore had the leaded crystal fragrance bottle from Miller Harris made into a small glass box that fit in his palm. The cover had the original engravings of Theodore’s initials and he’d added Draco’s initials beneath his.

 

He handed it to Draco and said, “This won’t make up for what an arse I’ve been, but it’s a start.”

 

Draco took the box, and Theodore knew him well enough to recognize that he was biting back a genuine smile. “It’s lovely.  Thank you, Theo.”  He kissed Theodore on the cheek.  It was small and sweet, but it made Theodore’s day.

 

“Open it!” Daphne urged.

 

“Or don’t,” discouraged Pansy, “There’s probably nothing in there you really want anyway.”

 

Draco glanced at Theodore and raised his eyebrows, as if to ask for his input on the matter.  Theodore gave a small nod.  He felt his cheeks get hot and his whole body tense as Draco took the glass lid off the box.  Inside was a little velvet cushion, and wedged in the furrow of the cushion was a ring, just like the portkey ring Draco had made from the discarded Dior cufflink.

 

Theodore reached out and rested his hand on Draco’s as he asked, “Come back to New York with me?  Let me take you shopping to replace all the clothes I ruined?”

Draco’s smirk widened, “How can I refuse an offer like that?  Of course I’ll go.”

 

“That’s it?  This whole production was just for you to ask Draco to go shopping with you?” Daphne asked incredulously, apparently disappointed.

 

Theodore added, as if it were an afterthought, never taking his eyes off Draco, “Oh, and if you want to get hitched too, that would be brilliant.”

 

Draco laughed softly and kissed Theodore properly on the lips.

 

“Is that a _yes_?” Theodore mumbled into the kiss.

 

“You had me at _shopping_ , Theodore,” said Draco, repeating with a small sigh, “You had me at _shopping._ ”


End file.
